Until Dawn
by choc0holic
Summary: A series of vignettes centered around the character of Lancelot.
1. Another Day

It was a matter of survival, nothing else. There was nothing tragic or poetic about the way the sword pierced the man's body. There were no great minds present to witness the magnificent occurrence; no one there to write about the way the man fell to the earth, his life bleeding out through his wound. No one was there to hear the last words of the man as he begged for his wife, for his youngest child to hold just once more. No one was there except for Lancelot, the man who took the other one's life.

Arthur had warned of death when he had first reached his post. "Death is not all glory and songs, little warrior," he said wisely, clapping a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. The young knight had not heeded Arthur's words, though. He had heard all about death from the fairytale stories his mother used to tell him. She told him of the chivalrous deeds the knights had committed, killing those who were a danger to freedom. She had made death sound beautiful.

He had made it through the first battle without ever hurting another. His brotherhood had protected his life and his innocence. Lancelot had stood on the side, and watch his heroes kill those who opposed them. He was far off enough so that he did not have to hear the screams of the dying, the silence of the dead. It wasn't until the next fight when Lancelot had to finally draw sword against another living man.

There was little doubt of his skills, for Lancelot had already bested many seasoned knights in training spars. The battle was going quite well until a member of the other side clashed into Lancelot's path. Seeking the acclaim that he so greatly thirsted for, Lancelot accepted the challenge. He met the other's sword blow for blow, until he sensed the man's weakness. With several hard, quick strokes, Lancelot had embedded his sword in the hot flesh of the other man, piercing his abdomen.

The stories never told about the wails of the dying. They never told Lancelot how to pull his sword from the other's flesh. They never told him how to accept the cries and the pleas without shedding a tear, as he had seen his heroes do. Lancelot had had to stumble away, blinded by the ache that encased his mind. It was not until Arthur came up to him that he finally felt comfort.

"This first time you kill is always the worst, young Lancelot. With time you will learn to silence the grief in your mind, and go about your task with honor and ease. You did well today, boy. You have proven yourself to be a great knight. You have done nothing dishonorable. You have learned to survive." He wrapped an arm around the boy and shook him. "Swallow your sadness. Tomorrow is another day."

And so it was, and every like day after that.


	2. Predator

Guinevere was born to be a warrior, that much was certain.

You could tell by the fire in her eyes when she argued, and by the lean and muscular build of her body. Or, mused Lancelot, you could tell by the way she dominated fiercely in the skills of the bedroom. When they lay together, she was the predator, and he was the prey. There was nothing he could do but succumb to her wishes.

And that night, she wished to use ropes.

She was firm with her request, but he wouldn't have expected anything else. "Lie on the bed, Lancelot," Guinevere purred, spreading his limbs apart. "I shall tie you to each bedpost so that you may not move freely. Your fate on this night will be entirely in my hands." She grinned wickedly, and began to tie his arms to the top.

"Isn't it ironic, my lady, that we found you trapped in the dungeons, and now it is I who have become _your_ prisoner?"

"Our world is full of irony, Sir Lancelot. There is nothing you can do but continue to live with it." She finished her task, and sat up, admiring her work. "I am a genius." Lancelot frowned, and pulled with his muscular arms against the bindings. They did not move.

"You are not a genius," he quipped, "but a devil in the form of an angel."

Guinevere leaned in close, and kissed his mouth firmly. Her tongue moved within the cavern of his mouth, wickedly fast and sensual. He groaned as she pulled away. "Sometimes it is necessary to use force to silence you, my love. Arthur is not nearly so noisy in our love-making."

It was a bitter reminder that her flesh would never be his alone; that the beautiful smile she bore when sleeping after their union was not meant solely for him. He was but a knight, and Arthur was the hero. The hero was the one who would walk away with the woman, not the knight at his side.

Another heated kiss broke his thoughts, as all the blood rushed from his brain. Guinevere smiled at him benignly, and then began placing kisses down his bare chest. Her lips left a trail of saliva down his muscled body, and Lancelot struggled against his bindings. He longed to take her right then, as her head and well-practiced mouth dipped into the lower region of his body. "Patience, my love," she whispered, "you will have your relief."

"Wicked, wicked woman," he gasped as she teased him with her tongue. Lancelot pulled violently on the ropes that held him, but could not escape. He longed for her so much that it was painful. "Any battle, any war, any torture is better than what you are doing to me now, Guinevere!"

She let her hand wander up his legs. He moaned again. "This is but another battle, Lancelot, and you have fought well. Mayhap it is time to release you from your bonds, so that you may put up a true fight. I do love a challenge." Eyes smoldering, she reached to untie the ropes.

Guinevere was born to be a warrior.


End file.
